


And I Only Got You

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Marking, Pre-Series, Underage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Only Got You

Sam has bruises. Correction—Sam has _a lot_ of bruises. He has, after all, spent the last several years basically learning to make a living with his fists. Even worse, he’s as tall as Dean now, but his limbs stretched so quickly that he sometimes forgets how long they’ve gotten or how to move them properly, which inevitably results in him running into something or someone more times a day than he bothers to remember. And while he’s well-built for someone so skinny, he still doesn’t have much to cushion the impact when he walks into a coffee table for the twelfth time in a week.

But regardless of how many bruises he gets, Sam always knows which ones were put there by Dean. He collects them, touches them and remembers their stories, presses into them and relives the impact. He’s got five bruises dotted down his left shin right now, and he couldn’t tell you when or where any of them came from except for the second from the top, just right of center, received nine days ago where the heel of his brother’s boot banged hard as he tried to get Sam in a grapple and take his legs out from under him. There’s a spot on Sam's left shoulder, almost completely faded now, where he had smacked against the corner of the coffee table as he and Dean wrestled for control of the remote in the last motel.

Sometimes, he wants to piss Dean off so thoroughly that Dean will just lay him out, leave the reminder of his hands all over Sam’s jawline, so that every time Sam sees himself he sees where Dean’s fists have left a temporary imprint of the places their bones have met, connected.  Sometimes, he wants Dean to sink teeth into his skin, break it open and scar him forever, a signpost that says this boy with no home belongs somewhere. This boy has made promises forged in blood and fire, and no one can take that away.

Two days ago, Dean had picked him up bodily and slammed him down into dry grass, and he’d landed on an unseen, half-buried rock, biting off a cry at the unexpected pain. Dean had backed off immediately, worried, but Sam had just used the chance to get Dean down in the dirt under him, pinned with Sam’s long fingers loose around his throat, legs tangled together and Sam’s knee at his groin giving him no opportunity to struggle. Later Dean had complained that he cheated, but Sam had just shrugged it off. Not his fault Dean couldn't keep his head in the game.

The bruise the rock left on the back of his right hip is huge; it takes almost his whole hand to cover it completely. Sam stands in front of the bathroom mirror and lifts the hem of his shirt, twisting his hips around so that he can stare at the purple-black-red galaxy splashed across his skin. He watches as his fingers slide over and over the tender skin and then press, hard, harder, thinking about the concern in Dean’s eyes, feeling his dick twitch at the throb of pain sliding down his right side, sharp but viscous. He can feel that his eyes are watering, and it occurs to him as he massages his fingers over and into the sore muscle that maybe this is a little messed up, but probably not more messed up than the fact that he’s not even a legal adult and has committed more felonies and misdemeanors than a lot of guys in jail for life.

“Damn, dude,” Dean says, and Sam startles, dropping his shirt and whipping around to face the bathroom door. The bathroom door which he had definitely not shut because last he checked, Dean had been changing the Impala’s oil. “That’s a good one. That from a few days ago?”

Sam can hear that he’s asking ‘ _Did I do that to you?_ ’ He doesn’t really know how to say “I want you to do it again,” so he just nods.

Dean shakes his head. “Nice.” And then he’s coming in and pushing Sam away from the sink, heedless that Sam is trying to use the counter to hide the fact that he’s half-hard in his basketball shorts. Dean bends down, pulls out the bottle of special orangey soap that he uses to get engine grease off of his hands, and sets about washing away the evidence of his morning activities. Sam should probably leave, but Dean’s reflection is grinning at Sam’s like he’s about to say something, so Sam awkwardly hunches his shoulders in and tries to make the way he’s holding his wrists over his crotch look casual. Maybe Dean will leave to go watch TV and then Sam can actually lock the bathroom door like the smart person Dean says he is and get a little time alone because if he doesn’t and he keeps sitting on this bruise all day, he’s going to be getting totally inappropriate erections around Dean and yeah, no, that is not preferable.

He must have spaced out, because all of a sudden Dean is pulling off his over shirt, unbuckling his belt and tugging off his jeans, which must have had grease on them because Dean kicks them into the corner like he’s just gonna worry about them never. Dean turns back to him in just his white undershirt and boxer briefs, and Sam really hopes Dean thinks he’s blushing because he is suddenly embarrassed to see Dean in his underwear and definitely not because ten seconds ago he was thinking about jerking off with Dean in the next room. He does usually try to have a little decorum about these things.

“Hey, lemme put some of that stuff on it,” Dean says, and Sam has literally no idea what he’s talking about until Dean goes back under the counter and pulls out a jar of some yam-based cream that Dean’s last fling had given him after she’d seen all the bruises Dean got ‘in a bar fight’ (the ghost had, in fact, been a bartender before his house had been burned down by some crazy anti-immigrant assholes back in the 1910s). “It’ll be less sore, make the bruising go away faster.”

“No,” Sam says, before he can stop himself, because what reason exactly is he supposed to give his brother for not wanting an admittedly nasty-looking bruise to heal up more quickly? “It’s not really a big deal. I don’t need your girly shit, thanks.” Yeah, that's a good reason. Dean and his girly shit.

But Dean is just shaking his head and grabbing at the hem of Sam’s t-shirt. “Come on, dude, lose it,” he orders, and Sam’s arms are listening even though his brain is requesting that they _not._ At least he involuntarily has an ounce of sense to recognize that this is not a fight he wants to get into. It’s not like he won’t have six more bruises by next Tuesday anyway, right? Right, so he just needs to let this go. He realizes that he’s crumpling up his shirt in his hands, so he lets it drop to the floor, lets Dean nudge him so that he’s standing in front of the mirror again. He braces his arms against the counter, palms flat and pressed into the cold surface so that he doesn’t do something stupid like grab the lotion out of Dean’s hand and throw it at the wall.

Dean comes up behind him, and Sam can feel the heat he’s still carrying from working in the sun, can smell sweat and metal and _Dean_. He hears his brother twist the lid off the lotion container, and his hands curl into fists on the countertop. Dean sets the open container down next to one of them. Sam’s breath hisses out involuntarily when Dean’s fingers, slick with cool lotion, glide over the skin of his hip. Sam can feel his fingernails digging into his palms, can feel the adrenaline that’s urging him to fight shuddering through his body as he watches Dean’s bent head in the mirror, and he hears himself growl out “ _Stop_ ” before he registers that it’s going to happen.

“Come on, _baby_ , it doesn’t hurt that bad,” Dean chuckles from over his shoulder, sliding down the waistband of Sam’s shorts to get at the patch of bruising hidden underneath, but when Sam doesn’t respond to the jibe, he looks up, catches Sam’s eyes in the mirror. “Sam? Hey man, what’s wrong?” Sam takes a second to look at himself and he realizes that he’s biting his lower lip so hard it’s white, that his chest is heaving as he sucks in shaky breaths.

Sam pulls in a deep inhale, tries to calm down his body that has gone completely off the rails without his permission. “I just...I just want you to stop,” he says, and his voice sounds small even to him. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean chides, curling his left hand over Sam’s shoulder. “Is it hurting that much? Maybe there’s something wrong we don’t know about.” And then he’s resting his forehead on Sam’s shoulder while his fingers probe gently at the bruised area and yeah that is Sam’s blood dropping straight to his dick. _Fuck_. 

“No, Dean,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice flat. “It’s fine, it’s just a bruise, I just don’t—.” He cuts himself off.

Dean looks up. His chin rests perfectly on Sam’s shoulder now that they’re the same height. His right hand palms Sam’s hip. “Don’t what, Sammy?” Those green eyes are burning into Sam, and Dean is just _everywhere_ , in his space and in his head and in his heart, and Sam doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to keep trying to hide from that.

“I just—I like it, okay?” Sam’s gaze falls away from Dean’s eyes and fixes on the tiny cracks running all over the countertop. He can feel his cheeks heating up.

“You like...huh?” Dean asks, and when Sam doesn’t answer, Dean pulls him around by his shoulder so that they’re face to face. Or would be, if Sam weren’t looking at the floor. “Sam, what?”

This is just so _stupid_ and where does Dean get off, forcing him to talk about this shit to his fucking older brother anyway. He looks up at Dean, defiant this time. “I said I like it, Dean. I _like_ it."

“Oh.” Dean says and then he must see something in Sam's eyes because he repeats, “ _Oh_ ,” and he’s looking at Sam like maybe Sam is some super interesting slimy thing under a microscope, fascinating and incomprehensible. Sam doesn’t really know what he’s expecting, maybe for Dean to make some crack about Sam’s messed up _preferences_ , but nowhere on the list was Dean’s fingers back on his hip and pressing in as Dean looks at him, hard, and asks, “You let other people hurt you?” in a voice that has Sam stammering when he chokes out a “N-no” in response.

“Because nobody gets to hurt you, Sam,” Dean finishes, tone so imperative that it grates at the part of Sam that hates being ordered around.

“Oh fuck off, Dean,” he spits back. “You don’t know what it’s about, you don’t know _anything_.” His hands are fisting in Dean’s shirt to shove him back, but Dean isn’t letting himself be moved.

“Then tell me, Sam, what’s it about?” Dean presses into the bruise again, and the air pants out of Sam’s lungs without his permission. If Dean were any closer, there is no way he’d miss how hard Sam is in his shorts and Sam really needs him to move in or get further away or do _something_ besides attempting to tear at Sam’s defenses with that stare that’s not giving away anything on Dean’s behalf.

“No,” he bites out, trying to push Dean away again.

“Sam.” Dean's fingers pressing in.

“No.”

“ _Sam_.” He feels the blunt edge of Dean’s nails on the tender skin.

“NO!” he yells and then he’s got his hands on Dean’s face and he’s kissing him, he’s kissing his _brother_ , and there’s a part of Sam that’s supposed to be horrified but his body is too busy falling into how right it feels and how everything he hasn’t understood suddenly makes a really stupid amount of sense.

Dean pulls back, still so close Sam can count those long, girly eyelashes, and Sam refuses to read the expression on his face because he really doesn’t want to know what Dean is thinking right now. But then Dean says “Sam?” and it sounds broken and lost and it makes Sam feel sick to his stomach.

“Shows me where I fit,” Sam murmurs,  watching as he slides his thumbs over Dean’s bottom lip. “Shows me where I belong.” He slips one hand down, over Dean’s, over the bruise and presses in again. He lifts his chin a notch and holds Dean’s gaze. “Belong with you.” 

Dean presses his forehead against Sam’s, and he makes a noise that Sam’s never heard before, not in all his years in Dean’s pocket, but then Dean is kissing him again and Sam forgets how to care about anything else. 

It’s hot and wet and better than anything Sam’s had before. He can feel Dean’s stubble burning his jawline as intimately as Dean’s tongue in his mouth, and he knows he’ll be scuffed and red later on, an all-new kind of mark from Dean to treasure, and then Dean’s mouth is moving away, a fist in Sam’s hair tilting his head back to expose his neck, and he’s biting and licking and sucking, marking Sam deliberately, and if Sam wasn’t fully hard before, now it’s painful. He tries futilely to press his erection into Dean, desperate for friction, but Dean arches his body away, continues his progress down Sam’s neck and onto his chest.

"Mine,” he mouths against Sam’s collarbone, biting so hard it actually hurts, but then he grinds the heel of his hand against Sam’s cock and sparks break out at the edges of Sam’s vision. He knows he should be reciprocating, doing _something_ , but his brain is so caught up in the haze of knowing Dean is putting brands all over his body, that he’ll have bruises in the shape of Dean’s mouth for days, that all he can do is groan and slide his hands into Dean’s sweat-damp hair and try not to come in his pants.

“Yours,” Sam pants back. “Only want to be yours, show me I’m yours,” and Dean makes a sound like he’s being ripped open inside, dropping down to his knees in front of Sam, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Sam’s shorts and looking back up with a question in his eyes. Sam cups the side of Dean’s face in his hand and nods fervently, and Dean presses into the touch for a moment before sliding down Sam’s shorts so Sam can step out and Dean can toss them away. He sucks a bruise just below Sam’s hipbone, another at the juncture of hip and thigh, a third into the delicate skin just next to his balls, and Sam could cry with the need for Dean to move two inches over and give him some relief. But then Dean’s hands are grabbing his hips and Sam is being spun forcefully around to face the mirror. Dean presses into the back of his right knee hard enough that it collapses and he has to put all his weight on his left leg. 

“Leg up, little brother,” and Sam is really in no position to question it even though he’s not totally sure what’s going on, so he folds up his knee and puts it on the counter, gripping the edges with his hands for balance as Dean starts sucking bruises into his lower back, just above his ass.

Sam catches sight of his reflection and is really not responsible for the way he out-and-out moans at the site of the bruises Dean has left all over his chest. “Dean, god, you—oh, _Dean_ ,” he groans out, and Dean groans back, sinking his teeth into the meat of Sam’s asscheek before he’s pulling them apart and blowing a stream of air over Sam’s hole. Sam shivers at the feeling. “Dean, what—?” But he cuts off with a strangled noise when Dean’s tongue swipes over the vulnerable flesh and _holy mother of god_ Sam is pretty sure his brain has liquefied and is oozing out of his ears but he doesn’t even _care_. His cock is leaking and Sam is dying to get a hand on it but he’s fairly certain if he tries to move he is going to collapse on top of Dean and then Dean would have to stop what he’s doing which might actually _kill_ Sam so he just holds on for dear life as Dean’s hot mouth licks him open, keens when he feels Dean’s tongue shove up inside, just barely at first. Sam thinks he might actually be crying and he cannot stand to look at himself so he lets his head fall forward, pushing his ass out and into Dean even more. Dean just takes the chance to shove in deeper, and time seems to speed up and stop all at once. Sam's been here his entire life, for only a heartbeat. He's about to start begging but he doesn’t even know what for.

He’s sloppy wet; he can feel spit rolling down his balls, on his thighs, as Dean presses in tighter and _sucks_ , and Sam’s entire body shudders, his cock jerking fiercely and slapping against the counter on the recoil. His foot still on the floor is starting to cramp up with the way Dean’s overwhelming touch has forced him up onto his toes, his palms are burning where he’s gripping the edges of the vanity like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground at all, his head is spinning because he can’t breathe, keeps choking on spit every time he tries to pull air into his lungs, wasting what little he gets on inhuman sounds he can’t stop himself from making.

“Dean, Dean, oh, fuck, _Dean_ ,” he pants out, and he swears he can feel his body vibrate with the way Dean growls back at him, his lips and tongue never leaving their relentless work of fucking into Sam and sucking him open and then Dean’s fingers are pressing into the tender bruise on his hip, his grip steely and possessive, and Sam feels the scrape of teeth against his hole and the thought of Dean marking him _there_ , the most hidden, vulnerable part of Sam reading “Dean” in red-and-purple like the hickeys on his chest, flushes him so hot all over that he can't hold off any long, puts a hand on his cock and pushes himself brutally over the edge, coming all over the sink and sobbing his brother’s name. 

When awareness comes back to him, he's staring at his come, all over the counter, and he slides his fingertips through it wonderingly, because while he knows how it got there, he’s not really sure how _they_ got _here_. His mind is too gone to comprehend anything, but the glow of his orgasm is shared with the harsher light of things that have suddenly clicked into place, and just as suddenly his need to _see_ Dean is so overwhelming that he bangs his knee hard getting his foot down off the counter, his stiff muscles protesting the sudden movement, and he’ll count that future bruise as one of Dean’s, too.

Dean’s still kneeling behind him when he turns, eyes down towards the tile, shoulders rising and falling hard and fast with his breath, and Sam fists his clean hand in his brother’s hair, forces those green eyes up to his. Sam can’t imagine what he looks like right now, but Dean looks _wrecked_ , and Sam’s seen Dean after sex, stumbling into a diner booth after spending Brittany the Waitress’s break time in the store room, but Sam has never seen Dean look so...so _beautiful_.

“Dean,” he whispers, reverently, and he gives into the shakiness of his knees and collapses to them on the tile, his hand sliding out of Dean’s hair to cup his cheek, thumb running through the mess of spit on his chin, over his bottom lip, red and swollen and lush and Sam can’t help but surge forward and capture those stupidly perfect lips, lets Dean’s tongue slide in when it presses for entrance. He can taste himself on his brother’s mouth— _he can taste himself on his brother’s mouth_ —and Sam whimpers, laying into Dean and using his weight to push Dean back until he’s leaning a little awkwardly against the side of the tub.

As Sam starts to tug on the waistband of Dean’s boxer briefs, his brother catches his wrist. “Sam,” he says, and his voice is low and raw in a way that Sam needs to hear every minute for the rest of his life, “you don’t have—”

But Sam cuts him off with a “Shut up, Dean,” and for once in his life, Dean listens and lifts up his hips so Sam can tug his underwear down and off. Sam can’t help but take a minute to stare at his brother, who looks so unbelievable in his threadbare white shirt on top and nothing on the bottom that Sam feels breathless and lost all over again. But then his eyes catch on the aching purple swell of Dean’s erection, and he can’t crawl between his brother’s legs fast enough, grabbing the hot line of him in a come-slick grip. It’s different than touching his own dick, but he figures the principles are the same and sets up a quick, hard, twisting motion, and Dean is groaning and staring at Sam’s hand fisting his cock, while Sam’s eyes bounce endlessly from that pretty picture to the blush spreading down Dean’s neck and disappearing under his shirt to the way his lips are parted softly as he pants. 

“Sam,” Dean grinds out, slow and heavy, and his hand strikes out blindly, catching around Sam’s neck and fisting into his hair, his thumb pressing into one of the bruises he made earlier, and a wave of heat crashes down Sam, head to toe, filling him with a burning need to mark Dean back, to show everyone Dean touches that Dean belongs, Dean has a home, too.

He shoves the hem of Dean’s shirt up roughly with his free hand and latches his mouth onto one of Dean’s nipples, bites and sucks and then Dean is moaning under him, hips arching and Sam’s grip growing sloppy as Dean comes over Sam's fist, and he pulls himself away to watch Dean’s face as he climbs the pleasure high and then comes down, melting against the edge of the tub and the cold tile floor like all his bones have dissolved, which Sam gets because he sort of feels the same way. Dean’s chest is heaving, his head fallen back, resting on the edge of the tub, so Sam lets himself go boneless, too, spilling into the space between Dean’s thighs and resting his head on Dean’s chest. Sam holds up his hand, now covered in a mix of both of them, stares at it a little in awe. 

After a minute, Dean’s arms come around him, and they stay that way for a while, their breathing evening out until it’s simultaneous, and Sam can feel his heartbeat calming and coming into sync with the one he feels in Dean’s chest. 

“Sam,” Dean says, after they’ve lain there so long Sam’s eyelids are starting to feel heavy. He rubs his cheek a little against Sam’s hair. “Gotta move, Sammy, tile’s killin' me,” and Sam wants to protest, wants to nuzzle deeper into the warmth of Dean against his cheek, but his body is protesting the chill and hardness under him, too, so he sits back reluctantly, careful to keep his eyes down on the floor because he has no idea what happens next and he really doesn’t want to look Dean in the eye. 

“Hey hey hey, Sammy,” Dean says, and it’s got that big brother warmth trickling in, the tone that eases the ache in Sam’s chest whether he wants it to or not. He feels the press of Dean’s fingers under his chin and lets his gaze be lifted. Dean’s eyes are bright, and he can see the concern there. “It’s all right, okay? It’s all right.”

But Sam doesn’t really know what’s all right. It’s all right that he was just propped open on the bathroom counter, moaning like a porn star for Dean’s mouth? It’s all right that he just jerked his _older brother_ off and is thinking about sticking his fingers in his mouth because he wonders what Dean tastes like? All right that this morning, he knew he wanted something but had no idea this was it? All right that now he’s had it, he can’t imagine not wanting it again? Like maybe forever? 

Dean’s running a hand softly through his hair, looking at him with a sort of resigned quiet like he’s thinking that what’s going through Sam’s head is the opposite of what actually is, so Sam leans forward and presses a kiss, just as soft as Dean’s touch, to his brother’s lips. Dean’s lips quirk up into that little smile Sam knows is only for him, and Sam can’t help the way his whole face smiles back. He doesn’t know how they’ll do this, with Dad and moving and the fact that they’re you know, brothers, hell, he doesn’t even know what this is, but he’s always trusted Dean and this is no exception. What’s a few more felonies between friends, anyway?

“We’ll work it out,” Dean says, answering the question in Sam’s eyes. And then he’s pulling his legs from around Sam, pushing himself up off the floor with a grunt of displeasure, helping Sam up. Sam wipes his hand on his bare chest, ineffectually trying to clean off some of the come that hasn’t dried, and Dean laughs. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up,” he says, turning around and pulling aside the curtain to start the shower. 

Sam watches as Dean pulls off his shirt, shyly reaches a hand out and runs it down Dean’s chest. His fingers linger over Dean’s nipple, still red and angry from Sam’s earlier bite, and Dean bats his hand away, laughing again as he pulls Sam into the shower after him. Dean turns them so that Sam is under the spray, cupping Sam’s face and tilting his head back under the water. His hands slide down Sam’s neck and sides, and Sam shivers despite the hot water.

Dean’s hand curls around Sam’s hip and rests lightly against the bruise there, not pressing. “Had no idea you were such a kinky fucker, baby bro,” he smirks, voice low and dirty, and Sam just catches his brother's gaze, holding it until Dean’s fingers press in, sudden and hard, and the moan that rips out of Sam’s mouth is guttural and unwanted, would be embarrassing except for the way that Dean crowds Sam back against the wall, mouthing at the line of Sam’s cheekbone. The look Dean’s giving him sends a flash of heat through his body that has nothing to do with the steaming shower, his cock already starting to come back to attention. 

“I guess we’ll just have to find out what else you like.” And Sam? Sam is so on board with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Jimmy Eat World song "How'd You Have Me" (which I don't associate at all with this story, but which I do associate with canon-Sam-and-Dean feels).
> 
> Sorry guys, I had finals and this came out of my brain instead of productivity.


End file.
